The Path That Leads to Somewhere
by scorpiusXpoisoned
Summary: Every choice you make, every step you take, creates a path leading to somewhere. You can never be sure exactly where, but you'll know it when you get there. With a road quickly winding in front of them, where will the boys end up? High school age fic.
1. Introduction

**Title: The Path That Leads to Somewhere**

**Shortened To: PLS**

**Written By: scorpiusXpoisoned**

**Summary: Every choice you make, every step you take, creates a path leading to somewhere. You can never be sure exactly where, but you'll know it when you get there. With a road quickly winding in front of them, where will the boys end up?**

**Parings: Kyle/Stan, one-sided Cartman/Kyle, Wendy/Cartman, Kenny/Butters, Kenny/Everyone, more may be added and some may be taken away. All/most pairings are eventual at this point.**

**Warnings: Violence, profanity, adult themes, angst, drama, romance, character death, substance abuse, and slash (boy/boy).**

**Disclaimer: I do NOT, and NEVER will on South Park. I'd do a terrible job anyway. So for now, I'm content with writing fanfictions like this**

**Inspiration: The magical land where all inspiration comes from**

**Author Notes: I'm trying a new style with this, just as an experiment. I thought it might work better than what I originally planned: a mix of poetry and paragraphs. Tell me what you guys think, alright? This is just the prologue, or an introduction/preview chapter so not much is going to be explained plot-wise, but don't be afraid to tell me what you think.**

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><p>This wasn't supposed to happen.<p>

I never meant for this to happen.

Why did this happen?

How did this happen?

What did I do – what did any of us do – to deserve this?

I can't believe I let myself think that this was crazy enough to work.

It didn't work. It was just crazy.

Batshit crazy.

_I_ was crazy.

No – I _am_ crazy.

I was crazy for thinking that there would ever be a happily ever after. That everything would work out in the end. When had anything ever gone the way it should?

Even after being taught the lesson, why do I still believe that it will all be okay? Why am I still clinging to a string a thread away from snapping?

I'm crazy, that's why.

I'm crazy for knowing and not caring. Knowing that no one will be left in the end. Not caring that even I won't be left in the end. Why doesn't it matter anymore?

It never did.

It had never mattered.

All I had wanted was to make them happy. All I want is to make them happy.

But now they're gone.

Every single one of them.

I didn't mean for it to happen. I think you would understand that by taking one look into my eyes. Grief. Regret. Sorrow. These aren't emotions I'm not familiar with, but I've never experienced them in this magnitude. This powerful wave of everything crashing over my very soul, so strong that I go numb instantly. So strong that I can't feel anything anymore. Only that drowning sensation, but I've grown used to even that.

Powerful waves of emotion crashing over worn sand, trying to find something to grab onto, but despite the sand's gravelly feel the watery fists of desperation and final hope grasp nothing, returning to the vast ocean of despair, fear, grief, sorrow, anger, loss, and every other possible emotion. The waves grow increasingly violent and desperate through an overpowering storm of negative sentiments, reaching out to grasp anything that might keep the vast ocean from being swallowed up by the storm clouds.

The storm always wins in the end, and the end was already here. The storm won.

I remember them falling one by one. I can remember each one clearly, as if I am still watching it happen.

First it was Dad.

Then it was Ike.

Kenny followed.

Butters soon after.

Cartman took his own.

I'm not sure what happened to Wendy.

But Stan followed me to the end.

Well, followed me as far as he could until he had to throw his away.

The only ones left are Mom and I.

At least I think Mom's still standing.

Maybe not.

No.

She left.

It's only me.

Me, myself, and I.

I can only wonder how long it'll be until I fall, too.

How long it'll be until I reach the end of the road and finally reach "somewhere".


	2. Greed

I know something is wrong before Dad even parts his lips to begin voicing the words forming in his thoughts. It's written all over his face, as if in black permanent sharpie. Bold, dark, and there for the whole world to see. 'Look at me! I did something stupid yet again!' Though I can't really blame him. Every adult in South Park is like that: reckless, overdramatic, obnoxious, and sometimes just plain stupid; too much to handle, to put it simply. Like the one time Dad went through surgery to become a dolphin. Well, to look like one. I can only say that it was not a good idea. I wouldn't be surprised if he winds up in a situation like that again.

"Pack up, we're moving."

Those words, however, were anything but expected. Sure, I had heard them quite a few times before, but only once had they actually been carried out, and even then we returned to South Park after San Francisco didn't work out well for us. Leaving South Park isn't possible. No, not possible. It can't happen. I won't let it happen. There is absolutely no reason to leave! And there is definitely every reason to stay.

Stan. I can't leave Stan! He's my best friend! I don't know what I would do without him.

Same for Kenny. We might not be as close, but even with his nasty habits and profane speech, Kenny is very important to me. I can't just leave him! Someone has to keep him in line and Stan won't be able to do it on his own!

Even though as much as I hate admitting it, I can't exactly leave Cartman, either. I grew up with his derogatory comments and snide remarks. I don't think I would know how to act without them. I would never tell him that, though. Never. Besides, if I left, he'd find some other kid's life to ruin. Maybe Stan's or Kenny's. I don't think I'd be able to risk that.

Then there's everyone else: Butters, Craig, Clyde, Wendy, Bebe, Tweak, Mr. Garrison, Uncle Jimbo (even though he isn't really my uncle, he's Stan's half-uncle), and all the other citizens in South Park. We might not always get along, but life still wouldn't be the same without them. I can't leave.

But Dad's mind is made up. We leave as soon as possible. Preferably tomorrow morning. So pack up your things, he says, and say your good byes. We won't be coming back this time.

24 hours is not enough time. Not enough time for anything.

So I decide to say my good byes, first. Put off actually packing up as long as possible.

I wish I could go to Stan first. I really do. But it is just too painful. Or scary. I'm not sure which. Either way I can't do it. Saying good-bye to Stan makes it too real. So I start out small. Maybe I'll be able to work up to it in time. Maybe if I prepare myself it'll get easier; be less scary; hopefully less sad. Yeah, right.

But even so, the first doorbell I ring belongs to the Tucker family, and luckily Craig is the one to answer the door. He doesn't seem too happy, since Craig just doesn't like anyone and hates being sought out after school hours. So he flips me the bird and demands that I go away, but I stick my foot in the door before he can properly shut it.

"I just want to say good bye," I say.

He doesn't understand, but I don't expect him to. What is there to really understand?

He sarcastically asks me if I'm going to kill myself and if he is one of the reasons why. I can't help but laugh. Yes, it is kind of horrible of me to do so, but I can't help it. I'm the last kid anyone would expect to commit suicide.

I tell him no with a smile left over from the small fit of laughter. No, I'm not dying. I'm moving. My dad says we're not coming back this time, so I just stopped by to say good-bye, I tell him.

The news seems to shock him more than me admitting to want to kill myself would have.

I don't blame him, though. It shocked me, too.

Of course, after a short pause, the first thing he asks is, "Have you told Stan?"

I hesitate before telling the truth: no, I have not.

Somehow he doesn't seem surprised by this. He asks why anyway, and I tell him that it's none of his damn business.

He flips me the bird, as if only for old times sake, and another fit of laughter ensues. However it's missing a certain level of joy it would have held. The joy it should have held. Joy replaced by a bit of regret; a little bit of bittersweet. It is bittersweet laughter. This is a bittersweet good-bye.

My footsteps echo against concrete as I walk away from the Tucker household without another word from either party, and I can hear the door shut gently when I reach the sidewalk.

Not one backwards glance is exchanged with the dark wood of the now silent door as I make my way towards the next destination: The Scotch household.

I don't even have to walk to the front door. Butters is already sitting on the front steps. What he is waiting for, I'm not exactly sure, but it doesn't really matter. By the end of our conversation, he probably won't remember, either.

I greet him, still standing at the sidewalk, and my voice somehow startles him. He jumps up, but a large smile is immediately plastered onto his face when he sees me. Butters greets me in his usual, occasionally stuttering manner, and informs me that he would invite me inside if he weren't in trouble again and being forced to sit on the front steps as disciplinary action. I understand, and sit next to him. I tell him that I won't be too long anyway.

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment or two before I decide to get straight to the point. So I tell him straight: My family's moving away tomorrow.

Butters is definitely more affected than Craig was, sensitive tears welling in his eyes silently. He denies it, more for his sake than anyone's, I think. He denies it, and he denies it some more, but I just sit next to him silently. Silently until he stops and looks me dead in the eye, asking for confirmation. He asks if I'm not just pulling his leg, if it's for real this time. Slowly, I nod and tell him that every word of it is true. I tell him that I'll miss him, but there's nothing I can do.

He doesn't really understand, but he pretends that he does. He's still a child in that way: innocent and pure. He doesn't want me to leave. He tells me that I'm the smartest guy he knows and that my being a Jew and half-ginger or technically from New Jersey never bothered him like it did Cartman. I can't help but smile at that. I thank him, because it seems like the polite thing to do. With all of the shit we have dragged Butters into over the years, I think he deserves at least this much. I'll leave the actual apologies to Cartman.

We sit there for a few more moments, completely silent, but I can almost feel the heavy cloud of depression hanging over his head. There's nothing more for me to say as farewell, but I ask him not to tell anyone. Especially not Stan since he doesn't know yet. I want to be the one to tell everyone rather than a silly rumor.

Knowing that he was told before Stan seems to brighten Butters' mood, for some reason. Maybe it makes him feel important, I don't know. Though I'm just happy that he is no longer depressed. Hopefully it would last a while. I don't want my last memories of Butters to be sad.

Nothing is left to be said, no more tears worth being shed, so I decide it's time to move on. I ruffle the tuft of blonde hair and stand, Butters mimicking my movement hurriedly, nearly tripping over his own two feet in the process. I tell him that I'll be back; that I don't want him to get into more trouble with his parents. It is a lie: I won't see Butters again before moving.

He looks like he really wants to follow me, but I turn before he can protest and walk along the concrete path to the sidewalk once more.

I'm not sure where exactly I'm going as I walk down the street. Who I should say good-bye to next, or what I should say, I'm just not ready. I'm not ready for any of it.

My feet lead me past Stan's street, and as I pause on the corner and look down the road I can see a side view of the front yard. Just the sight, even from so far away, brings a sort of sinking sensation to my chest, and it hurts. It's heavy. It's dark. I can imagine him inside that house now, the same house he's always lived in. He's probably fighting Shelley for the remote, or throwing a tennis ball at his bedroom wall and catching it as it bounces off. He probably just lost the remote to Shelley – again – and is now contemplating sending a call my way. It happens frequently, especially while Shelley's visiting from college, but it's still early in the day. Maybe he's still sleeping.

Stan does have a reputation as a heavy sleeper, after all. Going to bed at midnight minimum and waking up at three in the afternoon maximum. It's amazing how much Stan can sleep, and I smile at the thought. Afternoon naps after studying, or waking up after a sleepover and he's still asleep, walking into Stan's living room to find him passed out while playing video games until three in the morning: moments where I catch Stan sleeping are part of the few times when I get to see him for the real him. When he can reveal everything and wear his heart on his sleeve. He doesn't fake smiles while he's asleep, he doesn't pretend that everything will be all right, he won't mask worry, or anger, or even satisfaction. When Stan is sleeping, I didn't have to guess whether he is really happy or if he is truly upset.

I stare down the vacant street at Stan's house, my brown eyes transfixed on the green paint. Maybe I should just get it over with. March up to the front door and stroll in like I usually do, and just tell him. I will myself to take the first step, but I don't move. My feet suddenly feel like lead. I can't do it. I shove my hands in my pockets in defeat, my gaze shifting to the concrete below me. My feet still don't move.

What's wrong with me? He has to know sooner or later, and I think I would rather the former. What am I so scared of? Stan isn't scary! He couldn't be scary if he tried! I sigh quietly and tug on the strings of my solid green lumberjack hat. Quickly, I turn and practically run in the opposite direction, though really it's just a really fast walk.

I don't think about where I'm going, or where I might end up. Only about trying to get away from where I was. Does running away make me a coward? I'm not a coward! I'm just giving myself more time to prepare for the inevitable. That's not cowardice, right? My teeth clench a bit as I walk, and soon enough I find myself standing outside Kenny's house.

I can hear his parents screaming and throwing things at each other from out here, but it doesn't faze me anymore. Is it a bad thing that I've gotten used to it? I roll my eyes and knock on the door, waiting for the argument of who should go get the door to end and see the face of Kenny's mother.

"Oh," she said, sounding both disappointed and relieved at the same time. "It's just you." She turns to shout out to Kenny. "Kenny! Your friend Karl's here!"

My name's not Karl, but I don't correct her. I've gotten used to that, too.

I hear Kenny's voice shout a few things in return, progressively getting closer until he replaces his mother in the doorway. For a second he's confused, but then he smiles. He says that he knew that he didn't have any friends named Karl.

Honestly, he looks like he just woke up. And he probably did. His hair's messy and he has that not-quite-awake-yet expression on his face. That 'out of it' look that is quite distinctive from the 'out of it' look he gets when he's high. Suddenly he looks alert, realizing that he's standing with the door open, so he steps out and shuts it behind him. With a lopsided "Kenny smile" that you'd only find on his face, he motions to the house behind him and tells me what I already know; it's not a good idea to hang around inside.

Over the years, Kenny's situation has progressively gotten worse. His parents started fighting more, his older brother ran off to elope with some girl and his body was found less than two months later (Kenny doesn't like to talk about it), he dipped a toe into his parents' footsteps and started to partake in drugs and alcohol, plus he's working two night jobs now and is missing more school than ever before. Honestly, I'm worried about him, but he won't listen. Refuses to hear it. So I gave up. The only one in his family who isn't totally messed up yet is his younger sister. He makes sure to keep her off his path and encourages her to find her own. He may be kind of a jerk sometimes, but he's a good brother, and I can respect that.

So we stay outside on the porch. We both flinch when something crashes against the other side of the wall and Kenny scratches the back of his head as he glares at the door. I decide to break the silence first.

"Kenny…" I say, immediately regretting the decision to speak first. I clamp my lips shut and he looks at me expectantly.

"Kyle…" He says in the same tone I used, urging me to continue with a raised eyebrow and arms crossed over his chest.

I debate whether I actually want to tell him, whether I actually can tell him, and force my lips to part before a decision is made. I rush through the explanation, telling him what I've been telling everyone – I'm moving tomorrow.

He has to ask me to slow down and repeat myself before he understands, and when he does - or at least when it looks to me like he understands - he says nothing for a long time. We stand there, staring at each other. I can't read his expression, and that makes me nervous. More silence. It stands between us, heavier than anything I can imagine, and deeper than any trench. It's thick, bringing a wall stronger than any material known to man between us, and the distance continuing to grow.

I call out to him, his name just above a whisper on my lips, and I wonder if he can hear me from the other side of this invisible wall. I hear him exhale, a sigh of some sort, and I release a breath I hadn't known I was holding. He puts one hand in his pocket, groping for a box of cigarettes that isn't there, and scratches the back of his head.

So that's it, huh? He says it without meeting my eyes, and I can tell he's trying not to get upset. Trying to be cool, nonchalant about it all. I smile sadly and nod, not thinking of the words I could say to make amends. The words that would tell him how great of a friend he is, and how I worry for his health. Words that would tell him to take care of himself while I'm gone, else I'll hunt him down and cut him off cold turkey. But the words won't come. They refuse to form syllables on my lips or articulate with my tongue. I can't even get them from my brain to my vocal cords, and all I can do is stay silent.

Eventually, Kenny asks why. Why I'm moving. Did your dad get a better job? How about your bitch mom? Someone crazy enough to employ her?

Don't call my mom a bitch! I can't deny that she is one, though.

He hesitates again.

"Did your dad gamble again? Did he lose the house again? Where are you moving to?"

The realization hits me like a tidal wave. He lost the house again. This morning, he had been avoiding my gaze. Mom was obviously angry, too. He lost the house.

I'm filled with a red hot anger, quickly filling me from the tips of my toe nails to the tips of my hair until it's pouring out of my every pore, like boiling water. Whistling and dripping and falling and burning.

_He lost the house_.

I turn and run. Kenny's voice calling out my name carries to my ears, but I ignore it. I run.

And I run.

And I run.

_And I run._

I run until I reach what used to be my house; my home. I won't forgive him. Not this time. No, I've had enough. I stomp up the steps. I'm going to punch his nose in when I see him. He can't do this to us again. I won't let him. I throw the door open. He is so dead. It bangs against the wall and back again behind me.

Mom and Dad are in the living room, staring at me. They were obviously just having an argument. Ike is nowhere to be seen.

"Did you lose the house again?"

My own voice rings in my ears, and it's then that I realize that I'm screaming.

Dad stutters, Mom glares.

"You were gambling again, weren't you?"

My voice is still ringing.

Mom tells me to lower my voice.

I ignore her.

Dad says nothing.

"Were you gambling?"

I ask it again, glaring at my father and urging him to answer.

Again, he says nothing.

"Answer me, dammit!"

Mom gasps and tells me not to talk to my father like that. I ignore her again.

"Yes," he says calmly. "I did gamble the house away."


End file.
